


Flames to Ashes

by ironbutterfly25



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Infected Characters, Infected Claire, Infected Wesker, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironbutterfly25/pseuds/ironbutterfly25
Summary: A miscalculation alters Claire's life. Infected and believed to be dead, she lives the rest of her days with her brother's nemesis. She prays for a cure, hopes for her home. But heaven's out of reach in the devil's playground...[Post-Resident Evil Code Veronica]





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After consulting with a reader-friend (thank you so much, Sofi!), I decided to take down the prologue and continue to pace this story. As I've confessed before, I had to like 'try' writing smut for Wesklaire first, before completely trusting myself on writing a multichaptered story with the pair. And that's what I did here, but the 'trial run' prologue is kind of sticking like a sore thumb from the rest of the story now, so I took it down for coherency's sake and for my own peace of mind haha! As always, thank you for reading and supporting my works~ :D

 

* * *

A fever was a sign of infection, a sign that the body was fighting off a disease. But in her case, it was a sign of her being defeated by the virus.

Would she turn into a sort of plant, every droplet of her blood made flammable? Would she remember who she was or would she be mindless like a drone - no memories to define her as a person? Would she cease to exist? Just forgotten?, Claire's thoughts raced as the entirety of her shivered uncontrollably. Shivers soon turned into contortions - bending her limbs, reshaping her with vicious waves of something foreign and invisible. Her ears rang with white noise and her lips parted to make way for cries and screams.

Behind her tightly closed lids, images flashed in quick succession. Falling off a bike, crying ugly, a brother helping her back up. Scraped knees, dirtied fingers, pulled hair, surrounded by bullies shouting silly. Dead father. More crying. Dead mother. Loud sobbing. Chris was  _always_  there, in every memory, until he was simply not. Her hands shot out - unseeing and reaching. Her nails dug into the concrete - cracking and bleeding.

The pain seemed to seep into her every pore, seeping... melting...  _reshaping_.

And in her delirious state, where in the chill and the fire in her blood tried to rip her apart from the inside and out, a figure clad in black towered over her prone form.

"You'll be of use." A single sentence. A life sentence.

But useful sounded better than dead.

Live. Find Chris. Don't give up.

The rest of her surroundings bled to black and to  _him_.

* * *

She regained consciousness in a sterile looking room - all white tiles and grey steel. Her breathing was steady and loud in her ears.

Complicated equipment surrounded the metal slab she was lying in. Little lights twinkled in varying colors of red, green, and orange. Her eyes searched for something familiar in the room, something recognizable that would hint on her whereabouts, something in equal partitions of red and white. But the only red in the room were the little bulbs like hanging lights on Christmas. The only white were the tiles.

Craning her neck to the right, she studied the frosted door.

On it were simple letters written in gold.

_H.C.F._

* * *

Anxiety reared its ugly head, biting strands after strands of her confidence. The pulse monitor automatically picked up the turmoil within her.

Claire quickly slid off of the bed, heart thundering in her chest, surprised to find that she wasn't strapped in. She winced the moment her feet made contact with the cold as ice floor. Frantically her hands wandered over her body, checking for entry points, looking for sore spots where in needles could have broken into her skin.

 _Nothing_. Her eyes trailed back to the door.

H.C.F. — She had no idea what the three letters mean. No idea at all. But she was familiar with it - having seen it once before, having seen it recently. Yellow on black. Blond hair. Sable sunglasses. There was no mistake... On his uniform... those letters had been printed.

It was not a dream.

She remained crouched, cautious and wanting to remain stealthy as she made her way against the wall containing the exit. Her eyes searched the room for anything,  _anything_  that could be of use - a scalpel for slicing in, a cable wire for snuffing out, a bottle to smash against skull...

It was not a bad dream.

The hospital gown gaped open at her back, allowing the chill to prick over her spine, heightening her senses.  _Breathe_ , she berated herself. Eyes darting at the four corners of the room, watching out for cameras.  _I have to get out_. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down the side of her face.  _Need to calm down_. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat as she reached for the silver handle.

_Escape before he comes..._

* * *

The frosted door opened to a small laboratory, housing monitors with screens glowing with that golden acronym. But she was lucky, for it was empty of living things.

A red sign taunted her at the other side.  _EXIT_ , it said.

She straightened from the crouch position and dashed to the neatly lined tables, throwing open unlocked drawers, searching as fast as she could for something useful.

_A gun. Please, give me a fucking gun!_

Papers scattered on the floor with her careless movements. Fancy pens dropping. An intricate looking paperweight breaking.

Among the delicate and sharpened pencils, she found a shiny scalpel.

* * *

It was better than nothing, she thought as she stepped out to a deserted hallway. A scalpel could kill. And she could be real sneaky. It was better than nothing. It was better than  _defenseless_. If she stumbled on a lax guard then she could steal some heavy weaponry. It was a good start. She could get out if she put her mind to it. She could.

 _Careful and smart_. She whispered to herself softly.  _Careful and smart_. A mantra in her head.

Her bare feet were soundless against the concrete. The corridor seemed to be a long stretch when she first saw it. But she had covered the length of it... so fast, too fast. There was a strength in her. A strength she wanted to question. But she was also in need of that strange strength given her current situation.

 _Worry later_.

She pressed herself flat against the wall, gulping down deep breaths, attempting to appease her racing heart. She took a brief peek at the next hallway. There was an elevator at the end of it. The  _up_  symbol was lighted. There was no down symbol, meaning she was at the lowest floor possible.

Right in the bowels of hell.

* * *

She released the security camera. It fell on the floor, reduced to scraps of plastic, broken glass, and torn wires.

Crushed pieces.

_What the fuck—_

She stared at her shaking hand, her palm sweating, a fine dusting of what she had accidentally destroyed  _with ease_  clung on her skin.

The recent memory replayed itself, how she jumped for the camera, how she was so sure it would result to failure. She was  _not_  that tall, definitely never had that  _leap_  in her legs, definitely never had such  _strength_.

She was suddenly aware of the rising elevator, senses zeroing on the climbing numbered lights.

Closing her eyes took her back to Antarctica.

To the prison and corpses. To the castle and Alexia.

She could see her sly smile, could feel the silk of her glove against the injection site, could smell her chemical scent.

_'Can you handle this, Claire Redfield?'_

She could hear herself scream as the virus entered her bloodstream.

* * *

She hissed at the sting, before realizing she was the source of her own pain. Specks of blood decorated the tips of her nails. On her left arm was a chicken scratch of torn skin. It was tingling,  _itching_  like something was crawling from inside of her.

The elevator came to a smooth stop.

Her breathing turned labored, panic settling in. She tried to recover more memories from the island. But what else was there to recover? Besides the cold kiss of the needle and the fire on her blood that followed.

She stared at the scratches on her arm, knitting... vanishing...

—like a  _magic trick_.

* * *

"Drop your weapon!"

Six armed guards held her at gun point, the red dot sights seemed to be trained on every vital part of her they could pinpoint. Why not all go for a shot to the head?

"Drop the scalpel!"

She tried to search for a way out of the situation, the  _fish in a barrel_  sort of situation she was in. But all her eyes could see was the picture of her skin sticking back together.

 _Imagining things_ , her thoughts whispered, a blatant attempt to blind herself from the obvious.

"This is your last warning!"

 _Am I infected?_ , it was her last thought before someone shot the scalpel out of her hand, effectively leaving a hole in her wrist.

* * *

Time froze then, capturing the hurt radiating from her injury.

The pain made her ears ring as blood rushed in her head. The pain spiked her emotions up, dragging her anger out in the open.

Her eyes followed the droplets of her blood, falling on the steel floor... pooling there in small circles...

Then blooming into little flames that  _spread_...

* * *

"Get her out of there!"

"Shit!" Claire tried to stop the bleeding with her hand, fingers wrapping around her wrist to stop the blood flow. She trembled, as more of her life essence spilled on the floor, contributing to the wall of fire.

It was suffocating, the heat and real flames that were somehow caused by her. It easily conquered the cramped space of the elevator.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" She cowered in a corner, trying to escape the fire but her wrist was still bleeding, hence the inferno trailed her wake.

"Just stop! Stop!" She realized she could die there, burned into crisp by her own making. "Make it stop!"

A drop of blood hit her hospital gown, a small flame bloomed from it like a hot red orange flower, flourishing and  _burning_.

She screwed her eyes shut, crying in terror as the fire licked her skin.

* * *

"Calm down."

Radio static seemed to obscure her hearing. She was frozen in place, screaming her lungs out. She could smell burning flesh...  _her_  burning flesh, making her stomach churn.

"Claire."

Someone wrapped a cloth around her wrist, long fingers held it in place and she tried to snatch her hand away, thinking she would burn another person.

"Concentrate on breathing." The voice sounded clearer, sure and even like a doctor's. "Your abilities could clot a bullet wound."

She gasped, shuddering. A finger pressed into her injury along with the fabric. It hurt... It fucking hurt! But it helped her  _focus_ on breathing. She lowered her arm, the one she had been trying to protect herself with all that time, taking a peek at her surroundings.

It was his black boots she first saw. The rest of him towered over her, blocking the flickering lights of the damaged elevator.

"You've made quite a mess.", he observed flatly. Scorch marks decorated the steel floor and walls. Ashes stained the pristine white of his coat.

Wesker opened a small silver case in his hand, plucking a syringe out of it. He inspected the clear liquid inside, before crouching down to her position.

She could see herself reflected on his sunglasses. She was red-faced and gaping up at him. Her blue eyes rimmed with tears.

"We'll talk when you wake."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels nice to be posting again~
> 
> Due to a number of personal reasons, I went on hiatus and took down most of my stories. Real life work is admittedly more demanding these days, but somehow the 'busy' status sparks some drive to write. Hopefully, writing can be a form of de-stressing for me. And hopefully, I can manage enough time to finalize a few more chapters and new stories I've written in my hiatus.
> 
> As always, thanks for giving my works a try, your support is appreciated~ :D

 

A scream clawed out of her throat, only to slip into her ears and try to split her head in two. Her eyes opened to blinding lights, prolonging her scream to a dying cry.

Her mouth tasted like ashes. Her lungs felt lined with ashes. It didn't take long until she was suffocating and coughing and fighting against straps holding her body down.

 _Captured_. She realized.  _Trapped_.

Her chest constricted in fear. Tears stung her eyes as they swept over her surroundings in panic.

She tried to remember what happened. Smoke all around her. Raging fire reaching for her. Her skin knitting. Her blood in flames.

Somewhere nearby, a monitor picked up her distress, beeping noisily, forcing more pressure into her frantic mind.

Trapped like an animal.

She trashed in the restraints. Trashed and screamed. Played the part of a scared savage.

"Calm down."

She didn't hear any door open. She didn't hear him enter. But there he was, clothed in a stark white lab coat, his sunglasses ever present and glinting. His presence erased the memory of fire born from her, to be replaced by the sweet sting of a needle.

Tears welled in her eyes. Something sinister was brewing inside of her. It raced in her veins. She could feel her temperature flare up as if she was having a fever, as if she was bordering delirium.

"Claire."

He drew nearer, confident and cautious at the same time.

_Him? Afraid?_

A loud gasp spilled from her lips. Her entire body shuddered as she tried to take a deep breath in, as she tried to calm herself, as she tried to make sense of anything.

She trashed harder. Out of defiance. The leather was giving, she could feel it. The material giving in to the force that was her. But it shouldn't. She held no strength like that. But it was happening and she kept on trashing, she kept on crying and an inhuman screech was climbing out of her throat and the blood in her veins didn't feel like flowing life essence but viscuous lava.

"Enough." He was suddenly on her. Within a blink of the eye. He was  _on_  her. His hands were on her shoulders, fingers firm on her flesh. Crushing her, holding her down, a show of dominance, of his raw power.

She felt her skin bruising under his touch, then horribly healing. Her stomach was turning at the sensation, at that molecular sensation of blood clotting and staining the skin's surface, only to disintegrate into nothing, only to leave her perfect and intact. Her stomach completely turned and a sob ripped its way out of her throat.

His stoic face blurred behind the veil of her tears. The first sob was followed by another then  _another_  until she was openly crying and her limbs simply stopped trashing against the torn straps.

"We've gone through this. Focus on breathing.", he instructed. His voice like a salve, a contradiction to the bruising hold he continued to lock her in.

"No...", she spluttered out, afraid and confused and absolutely not feeling alright.

Her skin. Her current skin was  _not_  her, not her at all. It was foreign, different,  _mutated_. And she was fucking terrified of her recent circumstances, of herself as a whole.

His hold eased a fraction. His right hand slid over her shoulder, like a cool salve as well, moved to the curve of her throat. His gloved fingers pressed there. A light touch pressing, reassuring, letting her breathe somehow.

Tears continued to stream down the sides of her face. But she was breathing. The monitors were beeping, more slowly now, just steady and lulling beeps, calming beeps that her lungs willingly followed.

Her eyes never left his face, never left those cold sculpted features. She never removed her focus on the feel of his fingers, on that ghost of a touch.

She allowed it, let that one moment to transpire, allowed comfort to trickle in and  _trick_  her into a sense of safety.

Even when that comfort was coming from Albert Wesker and his round of sedatives.

* * *

It felt like a long time before she came to again, unbearably long. It felt like days, weeks,  _months_  had rushed by. Time was simply lost on her.

Her bones weighed like steel bars on a bed. Her eyes didn't open to a blinding light this time around. They opened to gaze at a canopy.  _Strange_. She had never seen a canopied bed before, certainly never been laid out on one. She took an experimental breath in, wary of her lungs and their unknown  _new_  capability. Could she breathe fire? Like a dreadful dragon?

 _Don't be ridiculous, Claire_.

Scents of cinnamon and varnished wood seeped into her senses. Good scents. Normal scents.

The room was dark. She could barely see. But for as long as she kept her eyes open and observing, her sight steadily adjusted.

"I suppose the sedative metabolised faster than expected."

She immediately recognized his voice. Her neck snapped to its direction. Sweat formed along her hairline, her neck, her nape - matting red strands on her freckled skin. Her fingers twitched over the sheets. It was freaking  _Wesker_  again, making it the third time she saw him after the nightmare that was Rockfort.

"You  _will not_  break down into hysterics.", he phrased it like a warning.

His footsteps were soft over the carpet, almost no sound at all, but she heard him anyway, heard him moving closer and  _closer_  with each heartbeat. By the time he stopped by the side of the bed, she realized that she could hear her heart loud in her rib cage and she could also hear his damned one.  _Who knew it existed?_  She took notice of something else. Another realization dawning on her, making her shiver. She took notice how the beats of their hearts were fucking  _in sync_. And she wanted to panic and put on the hysterics he specifically told her not to break into just to kill the existing similarity.

Wesker hovered over her. She could barely see him, but she could smell  _well_  the clinging scent of cinnamon on him. Her entire body froze when his hands landed on her shoulders, no warnings nor signs, he was simply  _already_  there - touching her, invading her space. Her brows furrowed, body recoiling from his proximity, but he wouldn't be deterred.

He arranged her to lie against the soft pillows. "Drink.", he drawled, cocking his head slightly to a glass of water standing still on the bedside table.

The urge to thrash and scream lingered on the surface of her skin, poking at the delicate barrier holding her sanity and humanity together. But she chose  _human Claire_ this time. She chose herself first and willed her hand to reach for the glass. Her fingers shook on their way, like she was too terrified that she couldn't help it but simply  _tremble_.

Her throat felt parched, dry and wilted like a plant. Every swallow dragged and scratched in her esophagus. She  _needed_  to rehydrate. But she wouldn't stop trembling and not functioning right.

His hand enclosed hers.

No warnings nor signs, just like before.

She stared at his pale hand over her paler one.  _So strange_. She willed her hand to slap his away. But nothing. She has no actual strength to retaliate.

"Loss of control. Heightened emotions.", he recited, his voice produced vibrations that traveled the length of his arm to where they were connected. "These are expected. Normal." He placed the glass in her hold, waited for her grip to appear strong enough before letting go.

To her disturbance, his heat lingered on her skin, fucking stick around there like it was pungent paste from third grade. She glared at her own hand, at that tainted patch of skin that refused to stop tingling. "You will adjust, sooner I hope— for your own sake."

She drowned his voice out, chose to put her mind on drinking the water, big hurried gulps until the container was empty. It worked like a trick, like some black market energizer that snapped her into living, into alertness, into  _focusing on him_.

The glass then shattered in her hand.

Pieces fell on her lap, sad little pieces, shards unable to even shine a bit due to the lack of lighting in the room. Her hand curled in a tight fist. Sharp remnants that dug into her skin, she felt them cut and  _cut_ , trying to bury themselves in her, trying to draw her blood.

Phantom flames flashed in her eyes, in her fresh memories. She gasped and closed her hand tighter, trying to prevent another disaster from happening. Can viral flames be held in a fist? Who fucking knows. But she wouldn't want to be  _burned_  by herself once more.

His hand was on hers again. His fingers picking at hers, prying them open, one by one so slowly - with saintly patience as if her bony fingers were petals of a flower.

"Remain calm.", he whispered, thumb running over the tiny shards sticking on her skin, stained with her bad blood. His touch stung, like his gloves were lathered with alcohol. But she could take that minute hurt, rather than suffer another arson of her own creation. "Focus on maintaining control."

He brushed the offending shards off of her skin. And they both watched, fascinated and horrified respectively, as her skin knitted - like one of the white boards at the university being swept clean, renewed and restored easily.

"W-What... What happened to me?", she croaked out, still staring at her hand, willing to forget that he was some traitor, willing to accept  _for a moment_  that he was some doctor, some researcher, some mad scientist who could fucking explain her damned situation to her.

"You were reborn."

That didn't explain a lot. And she hated the fascination laced in his tone.

* * *

Eight days and counting. Eight days and counting in his custody. For eight days, she rebuilt her strength and her grip on reality.

It wasn't easy.

But she managed meekness well enough. She welcomed the food and the water delivered to her. She accepted his rations and never showed her gratitude for she had none to give.

It wasn't easy waiting, staying put, bidding her time.

But it was the only sound plan, she couldn't fight and expect success without power.

* * *

Claire's fingers reached for the curtains, lifted them from the wall, remembered in the last minute that there was nothing to see for the windows were bordered shut for their "protection". She got a good grip then on the fabric and rip them all the way down to pool at her feet and on the dusty carpet.

He said he was waiting for proper extraction, said he took a great risk smuggling her out of Umbrella's  _unnamed_  rival company. She shook her head, still unbelieveing of her current state of life. Smuggle. Her. Out. Like she was some crate filled with shark fins or elephant tusks. Like she was a member of an endangered race.

She picked on a loose thread at the hem of the white shirt he made her wear, tugged and twirled it on her finger, rubbed it over her nail until it was cut off. She bristled under her own skin, her senses felt scattered everywhere. So sensitive to sound, to scents, to bright lights.

Her eyes flicked to the fancy shades propped on the nightstand.

He told her to wear it if the little dim lights bothered her, wear it indoors where the lighted damned lamps were kept in limited use, wear it like  _he did_.

She stomped towards the pair of glasses, grabbed the colored arms open.  _Dolce_  was written on one side.  _Gabbana_  on the other. The letters were littered with little gemstones.

Expensive useless piece of crap.

Her fingers bent and pulled on the arms, bend until they give that telling snap that ease the grating on her nerves a bit. She dropped the once fancy shades on the carpet and stomped at it for good measure, the sound of cracking glasses  _further_  ease her nerves.

But it wasn't enough.

It couldn't be enough.

It would  _never_  be enough.

She felt like crawling out of her own skin, felt like she could will it to peel away and roll off of her muscles so she could breathe,  _just breathe_ , so she could feel a semblance of  _normal_ again.

But  _reborn_  meant kissing normal goodbye.

And she couldn't just take that, accept that shitty fact. There must be a way to reverse the changes in her.

The heavy oak door cracked open.

And her body crashed towards the perceived escape route before she could process any of it.

Frustrations bred stupid impulses.

* * *

He wasn't cruel. But he wasn't gentle either.

Her scalp burned as his fingers tightened and  _tightened_  as she struggled in futility. The staircase was right in front of her, elegantly curving down and heading to the main entry way she had seen at least thrice in the past eight days.

She had seen no one else besides Wesker in those freaking eight days.

They were alone in that fancy-looking, mold-covered manor house. And she was sure as hell that she could take her chances on going against him.

He pulled her head back, a rough tug that made her bite on her teeth hard. She swore there was a crack somewhere, a poor molar or two cracking. She wondered if the virus could  _regrow_  teeth.

 _Fucking bastard_.

She wasn't afraid to lose teeth or hair if she could escape his vile clutches.

Her leg bent at the knee, striking him on the shin with her bare heel. It was like kicking on reinforced steel, except she was made of steel too, the force just bounced back, like a sound echoing, running over her body in the form of a vulnerable shudder.

"Stop the dramatics, Redfield."

Oh she could give him  _drama_  alright, leave him bruised and preferrably in pathetic tears... or dead, dead sounded more like it, sounded like the  _best outcome_.

"Our contact is on her way. We'll be leaving this decrepit hideout in a couple of hours."

She spat out a curse. A 'fuck you' or a 'fuck that', she couldn't care less.

Strands of her hair snapped free from her head as she continued her plight. Her neck strained, elongating like a swan's neck, her veins bulged underneath her skin. And as a last resort, her brain thought it would be  _brilliant_  if she bite herself - make herself bleed flames.

So she did just that.

Brought her right hand to her mouth, bit down on that velvet soft spot below her thumb. Her teeth sunk into her own skin as if her flesh was sugared dough. The taste of iron dripped on her tongue, increased in amount as she ground her blunt teeth over sinew.

It hurt. So much. A hurt so tangible. Her hand was going numb and yet she continued gnawing, hoping for more blood, praying for that destructive fire. She could smear it on him and burn him. And be done with this shit.

Her teeth bit down with more strength. Blood welled over her mouth and chin to drip on the floor. Whimpers slipped from her lips, frustrated that her self-inflicted suffering wasn't bringing the desired advantage.

The firm grip on her hair was suddenly released. It was reallocated to slink around her throat. Fingers closed around that curve, excruciatingly slow, so she could weigh her options, so she could choose between biting and breathing, so she could decide which pain was  _more_  tolerable.

It took insignificant time.

Her bloodstained teeth released, leaving an ugly bite on her torn hand, leaving blood bubbling with her saliva. She tilted her own head back, felt herself cradled on a solid shoulder. She stared at the ceiling, gasping and chasing air.

His fingers on her neck continued to tighten.

That realization brought forth the smell of his leather gloves, the clinical scent that was distinctly him, the heat that radiated from his body and enveloped her.

 _He'll kill me_. Her only thought as she could do nothing but stare at the peeling plaster above her.

Her hands curved like claws were on his arm, on his hand, on his fingers, prying with decreasing strength as the seconds ticked by. Her legs were growing limp. Was her skin turning blue or purple? Which color was it? The color of a suffocating person.

It hurt so damn bad. Her lungs felt deflating or bloating or exploding, that part of her couldn't decide which pain was it, which part of her was hurting more, when would it end? The second his fingers crushed her windpipe?  _When_?

Her vision started to blot, not unlike those times when she stared at the sun for too long. Blotting. Polluting. Darkness creeping at the edges.

She was suddenly crashing on her face. An unexpected blessing bestowed upon her. She didn't attempt to catch herself, there was no power left to do so.

She crumpled on the floor, left mute for a long minute or two, deaf for a long minute or two, blind for a long minute or two. Long minutes of agony that seemed to stretch on and on.

Her first voluntary intake of air was more of torture than relief. Oxygen flooded and burned her airways. Her own stomach felt lodged in her throat, like it was possible to throw an organ up and she did feel like throwing up.

Vomit bile all over the polished shoes before her eyes.

"Save your dramatics once we're out of here." His words mixed with the air burning her lungs to dust. She shut her eyes tight, blocking him out. She heard him step closer, felt him loom over her, before a bundle of her locks was snatched in his strong grip once more. "Cooperate,  _Claire_. Or do you really wish to just wither and die?"

His eyes flashed behind the glasses, golden red like a burning sun. Two  _very_  angry burning suns.

She had no plans on dying. But she had enough wits to never cooperate with the likes of him.

"You think I'll come with you?" She smiled, it must be a disturbing red - all of her teeth and curved mouth - a bloody red. "Willingly?"

It hurt to talk. Her voice even sounded garbled, broken like it was coming from a badly connected radio. But she continued.

"If you do then you're madder than I think you are."

He dragged her up so she was on her knees, on her knees before him, like a repenting young woman confessing her sins. He held her by the hair, a secure hold that meant to hurt.

"In fact, I am madder than you think I am, dear heart."

He released her hair. Just like that. A release. He didn't push or shove or kick her down on the ground. He simply released his hold. And her hair cascaded in a tangle of abused strands all around her. A curtain of crimson falling.

She remained on her knees, defiant and taking her chances still, even when he casually slipped a handgun out of his shoulder holster.

"Why else would I have bothered with the likes of you?"

 _He won't kill me_. The gun was black barreled, had a polished wooden grip.  _He won't_. Fear threatened to surface, but she held onto belief, to her reason, to his logic. Wesker pointed the gun at her, on her face, right between her blue  _blue_  baby  _blue_  eyes. The metal was cold on her skin, as cold as any sure kill would feel.

 _He won't kill me_. Her last thought as the barrel was shifted, the trigger pulled down and a tranquilizer dart sink into her arm.

He wouldn't kill her.

After all, she was  _to be of use_  to him.

 

 


End file.
